Black Ashes

Sometime we shall remember them, the little camping places, A day long, an hour long, a halt beside the way, Shall see again before us the mountains’ kindly faces With the white roads pleading, leading through the hill-mists wreathing gray. Lichened spur and creeping trail, sun-gold in the west, Purple moorland, misty lure-land spreading far beneath; Red-gold flamelight lifting, drifting, round the pine-dark crest To dim the little village lights asleep upon the heath. Sometime we shall remember them, from out the days that bind us, A year long, a life long, that link and hold us fast, Will come a breath of twilight blent with woodsmoke to remind us Of the little camping places in the springtimes that are past. White-spread dunes and opal sea, gray gulls slant the spray, Spiced sweetfern by sandy turn where the sun strikes gold, Scent of woodsmoke, vagrant, fragrant, ah, it haunts the air today From the little camping places in the Story That Is Told.